They lay their snares, their questions masked
in seeming innocence, an intellectual curiosity
overflowing with a venomous taste for death.
By whose authority do you teach?
Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar?
Which brother is the husband in heaven?
It was a dance of course, the masque of death,
blood-red with the impulse, the compulsion
to murder and destroy, for the sake of the nation.
As they dance the dance, as they sway and
pirouette, as they devour with their smiles,
the widow in poverty gives her two pennies.
This poem is submitted for Open Link Night at dVersePoets. The links for all poems submitted will be live at 2 p.m. Central time today at the dVerse Poets site.
This poem is also a meditation for Easter week. It was the Tuesday of that week that Jesus spoke in the temple for the last time as a free man.